Focus
by UsernamesAreForSquares
Summary: Mrs. Bella Cullen is feeling neglected by her husband Edward Cullen, so she seeks the companionship of someone new. Short-story, one-shot for now, but possibly a series. Mature themes.


I liked to be in the room with him while he worked. His eyebrows would sink lower into his eyes, and then move slightly towards the center when he focused on whatever was in front of him. At his seat he would lean over the mahogany desk, giving all the attention he could muster to the paper in his hands, the piece he was composing, the book he was reading, and I would sometimes remark that he looked like a statue with the amount of stiffness he maintained. Watching him dive into the things he held in those alabaster hands was almost like watching Nancy Drew touch the tips of solving the mystery. I loved to be in that room with him.

But today I did not like it, as I had not last week, and the week before that. Obtaining a position as a professor of literature at a community college, he slaved over his students' papers, over the Literature Club he founded there, over the board meetings put together by the Dean to discuss the school's recent academic acclaim with his literature students, ever since Edward started working there. He satisfied his base needs only when it was too strong to bear the burden of them; the cycle was work, hunt, work, school, work, hunt, and so on and so forth until the moments we shared together, the nighttime chats in our meadow, on our bed, the hand holding just because, slipped away like the participant in a one-night-stand. I barely uttered a complete thought to him. Our mornings were rushed. Our evenings were separate. And though I loved him, I desired that closeness we felt, when the world floated around us instead of us floating among the demands of this world. Frustration set in, and I wanted his attention, as childish as it sounded. I wanted to be adored again.

I could not ask something so selfish of him-though what exactly are relationships, other than a mutual selfishness, a partner hungrily satisfying their emotional and physical needs, taking turns drawing the tap dry until it was their time to give. I thought I needed to busy myself. I opened a consignment shop down on Main Street. I hired a twenty-three-year-old college student, who spent his lunch breaks reading original texts by Weber and Comte. He was a good worker; quiet, respectful to me and the customers, responsible with his work. He would do the heavy lifting, stocking shelves, taking inventory when I could not; when I was too busy being a wife and mother, which I never told him, but I'm sure he greatly inferred. In reality, I was busying myself with getting lost in the woods, on drives, diving off of cliffs, etc. I had grown accustomed to the solitude, to the depth I could dive into when I wanted to drown myself in my own thoughts.

Today as I watched my husband work, I found myself resenting him. I wanted to be enamored and sucked into a piece of writing by a student, meant for my eyes only. I wanted to have a passion that required my full attention. I wanted something to adore me, and for me to adore it, like a relationship that I had once called my own.

I remember leaving the room without saying anything at all. I remember hearing Renesmee play with the set I bought her yesterday to busy her mind, so that she might forget that her mother was neglecting the family she had once poured everything into. I remember walking into my consignment shop and seeing Sean, stretching his slightly muscular arms up to the top shelf, and how his dark hair fell like Edward's used to when we were both seventeen. And in that very moment, I remember wishing to touch the contours of his back, and feel the warmth of someone's body, of someone's looking at me and knowing me completely.

I touched his back, and he turned ready with a gentle smile. "I just finished unloading a set of clothes from the back," he said to me. "I hope the shop appears in order."

"These shelves look really nice, Sean. Excellent work."

He nodded, another youthful smile gracing his face. I wanted to touch the energy he radiated, the sunlight erupting from his hazel eyes. Eyes looking at me. Focused on me. I gazed at him for a moment longer, maybe a moment too long, because Sean shifted.

"Is there anything else I can do ma'am?"

Yes, my body cried out. I wanted him to look at me again. I wanted him to see me with those eyes buzzing with the intensity of worker bees. I shook it off. "Get yourself a girlfriend. You've been working too hard around here."

He laughed. A laugh meant for me. "Girls are nothing but trouble that I don't need."

"True," I said, walking behind the counter to the left of the room. "But so are men."

We both smiled.

"I think we're done for today. I'm closing the shop early. You need a break."

Sean cleaned up the mess around the shelves created by the boxes where the merchandise had been unloaded from. He worked quickly and efficiently, and I watched his dexterity and the bounce in his step as he traveled between the back room and the front. I watched at how, when he turned to me and smiled, it was one of respect. I wanted to touch the sweetness in his face, touch the young man in front of me who noticed my presence.

I had made the mistake of doing so.

I walked over to Sean and placed a hand on his shoulder. When he turned to face my body, I let it drag down his chest, feeling the angles of his body that his shirt kept hidden.

"Mrs. Cullen..." he said, a slight bit of hesitation in his voice.

"Sean," I replied, instantly dropping my hand. "Forgive me. I wanted something I shouldn't have desired."

"I'm ... confused," he said. "But I feel as though you're carrying a weight. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

How he paired the naivety of youth with such age-old wisdom. I looked at his shoulders, his flush cheeks, his mouth, the warm eyes and the teeth that peeked out behind the pink lips. A year ago I would have been disgusted in a married woman committing such an act. Today I just wanted to be adored.

"My husband won't look at me anymore."

"Hmm." He waited a few moments. His eyebrows moved like Edward's when I adored him. And then his arm reached out to touch my waist. His rough palms against my knit sweater, cupping the curvature of my torso, had caught me off guard. He moved a step closer to lessen the empty space. Eyes focused on me. My body in his hands. His back slanted forward to hover above my short frame.


End file.
